By this point,
I'm almost positive that I was born in the right era.
Although I love the light touches of a past that was never meant to be mine,
I created my own self from the scraps of both.
Equally beautiful, and both happening simultaneously.
When I matter most to those I thought that I valued,
all will be too late and forgiven for the sake of preserved time.
And when I exit this terror,
I hope that there won't be too much speculation of what I've done.
I will have done what was best for me,
for it is not my duty as one cell in the sea to constantly see the whole collective ocean.
That mass of gorgeous water is not in my juristiction of control.
I do not feel half of the nerves that I used to hit on tables when I pass by bolders,
and I see no use in the marveling of the branches that test the viscosity of my skin.
I will have grown a new coat to keep my bones whole and warm.
I do not long for the journey to be completely over yet,
but I can no longer ignore the brief pauses that I've taken along the way,
This is no longer a life that I can live ignoring the things that I've done.
They may not have been much in the grand scheme of things,
for I don't long to make the most recognizable mark on the world,
but I now know that I am capable of both great and greatly terrible things.
And with my two hands, I can mend the majority of them, or at least try to,
but I can only patch over the same hole so many times
before the guilty looking plaster begins to frown back at me.
As I'm taking my last breaths in this unforgiving and perpetually distant air,
I am savoring the elevation of my chest,
because I have no idea how many more times I'll be able to do that.
In this era of various discovery,
I will know things that it will take decades for others to stumble upon by chance,
and others will be privy to my dizziest daydreams that I may not ever know about.
At this point in time,
I am completely sure that I am meant to be here.
I don't particularly care why, for that is not part of the plot that I write.
In fact, and plot that I think of is part of another,
that will weave itself amongst the other millions that go undocumented,
and make itself at home with the woodwork that may never come to fruition.
I will not put the rest of my life in a box labeled "expectations" with a strip of tape,
and I will not label it at all.
What I will do and what I have done will overlap like blades in ice,
and perhaps I just won't see the zamboni
before swerving over my own cookie cut-out mistakes.
I will create the most pristine lines on my way to wherever it is will soothe my heart a bit
from the cold that I've let in through leaving the door ajar
with the hope that fresh air would stop me from falling ill.
Nothing is preventable,
and events that were meant to happen will unfold as they may.
The present is a destiny in and of itself,
just as the past was meant to occur the way that it did,
it's predecessor must follow the same rules.
Perhaps at some point,
I should make a hand-turkey,
just to resize the damage that I can do,
and consider before I go in with fingers painted red on a nearly alabaster canvas.
They are little devils getting themselves into different colors
that I once thought would work.
And for the briefest of moments, they did.
Orange and green aren't the best combination,
however I still think that the right two shades at the exact same time would be amazing.
But at the same time,
I'm not that much of an artist in this sense,
and this isn't my home field.
I lurk in darkened corners and despicable hallways still,
and after I'm able to leave there,
perhaps I might change my mind-set.
Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.